by Nancy Holder
Stein’s partner in the current investigation was the clearly overworked Detective Winslow, an African-American woman Giles had already had the pleasure of meeting when his past came back to haunt and try to kill him in the form of a demon called Eyghon.
On the one hand, Giles hated the idea that he was so well known among Sunnydale’s law enforcement community. Rule one of being a Watcher was to keep a low profile. Rule two: See rule one. On the other hand, Giles had often wondered how oblivious those who were entrusted with securing the safety of a town situated on a Hellmouth could be to the supernatural phenomena that surrounded them. He had no proof, but his instincts told him that someone, somewhere had to know more than what was reported in the papers. It was much too convenient that vampire attacks were almost always described as “kids on PCP.” It smacked of a cover-up that had to go higher than the flatfoots who worked Sunnydale’s streets. Just how high, however, Giles did not know.
Giles had been at home when the call came. Though he wasn’t convinced that Willow’s theory about the strange sleeping sickness was on target, he had to admit that he was exhausted, and he had planned to make an early evening of it when he was roused by the late-night jangling of his phone. He’d rushed to answer it, assuming it would be Buffy, and was taken aback when Detective Stein advised him that they had found evidence of a crime that they believed Giles might be able to illuminate for them.
Twenty minutes later he was standing in the middle of a full-blown investigation. The house was surrounded by yellow police tape, and several portable lights had been brought in to aid the detectives who were searching the front and back yards for clues.
Giles’s concern intensified when he noted the coroner’s van pulled discreetly up between the police cars that lined the street in front of the house.
“We need you to take a look at this for us,” Stein said simply as he ushered Giles through the foyer. Most of the activity seemed to be centered around the kitchen and an open doorway that probably led to the home’s basement. Officers wearing protective clothing moved silently past the remains of a dinner table set for two, pausing occasionally to dust for fingerprints.
Stein led Giles, with Winslow trailing behind, away from the kitchen and down a dark hallway toward a bedroom. He paused outside the second doorway on the left and gestured for Giles to enter ahead of him.
Giles did so, still completely at a loss to understand what possible connection he might have to what appeared to be the room of a normal teenage boy. Giles quickly recognized many of the textbooks lined neatly on a small desk as those of a freshman year student. A number of various-size soccer trophies were arranged neatly on a shelf above the desk. The only odd thing, as far as Giles could tell, was the incredible neatness around him. Even he hadn’t been this fastidious as a child.
A book bag hung on the back of the desk chair, and what Giles presumed were its contents had been neatly laid out on the perfectly made bed. As Winslow rather obviously studied Giles’s face for any spark of recognition or interest, Stein moved past Giles to the bed and, with gloved hands, picked up a medium-size, well-worn leather book and offered it to Giles to examine.
“Does this look familiar to you?” Stein asked warily.
It did.
It was a copy from his private collection of Marc Leon’s Raising Demons, a spell book valued more for its detailed illustrations than the efficacy of its spells.
“There’s a dedication inside the front cover,” Winslow said, motioning to Stein to open the book. Stein complied and read, “‘To Rupert Giles, best of luck with this one, signed Quentin Travers.’”
The book had been something of a joke between Giles and the man who now ran the Watchers Council. In younger days, both had been tested several times in the use of rather complicated spells that might serve in their work as Watchers. Quentin, who had never demonstrated Giles’s skill with magicks, had been challenging Giles’s abilities, certain that Leon’s formulas were outdated at best.
Giles hadn’t seen the book in months, but of course that meant nothing. Though he kept most of his private collection locked in the library’s cage or in his office, the intensity of the research required of him in the last two years had made keeping track of such minor works less of a priority than he would have liked. Still, he couldn’t imagine how it had ended up at this house.
“Mr. Giles?” Winslow interrupted his musings.
“Yes? Sorry,” Giles said quickly. “The book is mine, as you’ve no doubt already surmised.”
“A little light reading?” Winslow asked.
“It was actually what you might call a ‘gag’ gift,” Giles said honestly.
“A gift from you to Joshua Grodin?” Stein asked.
“I’m sorry,” Giles replied. “I don’t know anyone by that name. It was a gift to me. I’ve never lent it to anyone.”
“Joshua was a student at Sunnydale High,” Winslow offered.
“Was?” Giles asked, though in his gut he already knew the answer.
“His body and that of his father, Robert, were found this evening in the basement,” Winslow continued. “They were obviously the victims of a brutal and vicious attack.”
“Hell, they were practically ripped limb from limb,” Stein said, and shuddered.
Given the potential results of a successful demon raising, Giles didn’t have a hard time imagining the condition in which the bodies must have been found, though he did have difficulty believing that a novice could have successfully used Leon’s book to raise anything resembling a demon. It was probable, however, that performing a ritual on the Hellmouth, even an inefficient one, had an exponentially better chance of success than if it were done in another location.
“I see,” Giles said. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that.” Turning his attention back to Stein, he asked, “May I?”
Stein nodded and handed the book to Giles. He leafed through it for a moment, noting that a page had been turned down in a chapter devoted to Protection demons. Giles didn’t necessarily want to know more, but duty demanded that he gather as much information as possible, for Buffy’s sake. It was now highly likely that a new threat had arisen, and that Buffy would be the one to face it.
“Do you have any idea how that book came to be in Joshua’s possession?” Winslow asked pointedly.
Giles shook his head. “I don’t,” he answered. “It’s possible he meant to borrow it from the library and simply forgot to check it out.”
“An interesting choice for a school library,” Stein said.
“As I said, Detective, this was from my personal collection and might have inadvertently been mixed in with the rest of the stacks. Teenagers, as you know, have both active and vivid imaginations. Who knows why a boy Joshua’s age might have found this book interesting. I’m afraid it’s also possible that the book was mixed in with some other legitimate research materials and Joshua might not even have been aware it was in his possession,” Giles finished.
Of course he was lying. The question was, did Stein or Winslow have the good sense to see that he was lying?
Both detectives studied him carefully as he made his best poker face. Their scrutiny was interrupted moments later by a male voice calling to Detective Stein from down the hall.
Giles followed Stein and Winslow back toward the living room, where they were met by a flushed-faced young man in uniform who had obviously spent the last few hours digging through the area’s garbage cans. He had collected in a small evidence box an assortment of items that included partially burnt candles, dried herbs and roots, and several rags that were covered in a dark red substance that was obviously blood.
Though Giles couldn’t be sure what the detectives would make of this find, it clarified for him at least some of what had happened in this house. Someone, most likely Joshua, had in fact attempted to raise a demon. It was also quite possible that he had succeeded. Giles studied the house for telltale signs of recent demon activity, really nothing more complicated than ob
vious signs of destruction. Demons called to this plane from alternate dimensions usually didn’t adjust immediately to their new surroundings. The wreckage should have been intense.
It wasn’t. Apart from the book and the description of the basement, there was nothing to suggest that anything demonic had ever been in this house.
Giles was troubled. He asked quietly if there was anything further the detectives required from him, and though they requested that he make himself available for further questioning should the need arise, and promised to return the book to him as soon as possible, they had nothing further for him at the moment.
Though Giles wanted nothing more than to return home and get a few hours of much-needed rest, he, like Buffy, knew that his responsibilities must come first. Instead of heading for his house, he left the Grodin home and returned to the school library. Pulling a few choice weapons from his storage cage and keeping them handy, he locked himself in his office and set to work, doing his best to find out what kind of new hell Joshua Grodin had just released on Sunnydale.
Todd couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Buffy had taken him completely by surprise. Sure, she was gorgeous, and she was disarmingly easy to talk to. Usually a girl had to be more than easy on the eyes and reasonably witty to get his attention, though. He didn’t like to be a brain racist, but the only girls he’d ever seriously fallen for had all been sharper than he was, and that was saying something. Buffy’s brain trust, on the other hand, seemed seriously underfunded at first blush, but there was something there. It was hard to put his finger on, but it was in the neighborhood of a word Todd had never before applied to a girl under twenty.
Wisdom.
She obstinately kept her mind free of the facts and tools that made academic achievement possible, but there was something else taking up that brain space, a level of experience, perhaps, that belied her age. She seemed older than she was, as if she had lived more, if that was possible, than any other high school junior could or should have. It wasn’t the information contained in her mind that was so alarmingly delightful; it was the way her mind worked, how she seemed to take personally the fact that a good man had betrayed his cousin to steal a kingdom, or how a turn of phrase from a Victorian poet could make her eyes well up once the metaphor had been explained. Her reaction to this newfound knowledge seemed to indicate that she was linking it to secrets locked deep within her, secrets she couldn’t possibly have had a chance to learn at the age of seventeen.
She was a complete enigma to him. She was utterly intriguing. He’d found himself flirting with her before he could help himself, and even after only a few nights in her company had begun to imagine many more, once they were free of the burden of her final exams.
So what was his mystery woman doing trading punches with two men with bad skin, wearing strangely formal attire for a spring evening in the middle of a public playground?
Todd had actually stopped by Buffy’s house fifteen minutes earlier. She hadn’t returned his call from the morning, and he was half hoping that this lapse hadn’t been intentional and that he’d find her there, appropriately apologetic and happy to see him and ready to spend a few hours with him studying or talking. But her bedroom light had been off when he’d turned up the front walk, and her mother’s car wasn’t in the driveway. He had started walking over to the Bronze to see if she was with her friends, and only paused at the unmistakable sounds of violence from the other side of the wall that separated Rosewood Park from its street entrance.
Todd didn’t plan on getting involved. He was a good citizen, but he didn’t need to be a hero. He wasn’t above a quick 911 call, though, and had turned through the side gate to see if that was in order.
A few yards from the thick of the fight, a young woman, probably not much older than Buffy, lay on the ground. Meanwhile, his student kicked, punched, dodged, and took blows that he was sure would have knocked him unconscious several times over. He debated making his presence known and seeing if he could lend a hand, but Buffy seemed to have things more than under control. For a few moments he lost sight of them as they moved behind a jungle gym. The next thing he knew, the sounds of punching and bone crunching ceased and Buffy emerged winded and alone.
She rushed quickly to the side of the other young girl and helped her to her feet. Todd ducked behind a tree as the two girls made their way to the gate and out of sight.
Shaken, confused, and, he had to admit it, a little turned on, Todd rose to his feet and decided to cross to the main gate to make his exit so as to avoid any possibility of running into Buffy.
He needed to think, and possibly, a drink.
He’d read Buffy’s academic file before accepting his assignment. He knew she had a history of delinquent behavior, but once they’d met, he’d found it impossible to square the profile with the person. Now he was unhappy to find that everything he’d heard and read about Buffy was probably true.
Buffy thought she’d seen everything. But tonight had been a first. When she’d crossed through Rosewood Park, hoping to catch a glimpse of Callie or Spike, she hadn’t been terribly surprised to see two vampires. The thing that had topped the charts was the fact that the vampires had already found a victim, a girl Buffy vaguely recognized from the volleyball team, and instead of feeding off her like run-of-the-mill bloodsuckers would, they were actually doing a Thunderdome Death Match with each other over who had seen the girl first.
After confirming that the girl was just injured, and far from dead, Buffy had thrown herself into the fray. She had actually had a difficult time keeping the vampires away from each other and focused on her. She hadn’t seen either of the two soon-to-be-dusteds around, but she got the distinct impression that they weren’t new to the whole suck-squad routine. This made it even harder to understand why they were wasting their time fighting each other over something they could have easily shared.
And then it struck her.
Just like Larry and Jonathan in the school cafeteria.
It was a scary thought. Buffy paused before her closet door as she tossed her now bloodstained white tank blouse into the “Do Not Show Mom” pile, realizing that it was altogether possible that whatever was screwing with the sleep patterns of the living population of Sunnydale might be affecting that of its undead residents as well.
Come to think of it, Slayer strength aside, Buffy had to acknowledge that she hadn’t been at her sharpest in the evening’s battle. She’d managed, of course, but she’d telegraphed too many punches and kicks, giving the vamps too much time to dodge or recover.
Once the fight was done, and Valerie the volleyball queen had been safely seen to her front door, Buffy had quickly decided that Callie and Spike would have to keep for another night. She hadn’t even bothered with preparing speeches for Giles as she’d made her way back home. She’d walked in a daze, only certain of the fact that she intended to be up before dawn and back in Arborville to see what happened when whatever demon dimension had sucked Snyder in spat him back out again.
She really needed to get some rest. And she had a sinking feeling that tonight, once again, that wasn’t going to happen. She set her alarm for an hour before sunrise and lay down to grab less than four hours of not too deep sleep.
The next thing she knew, it was morning. Her alarm had been going off for over two hours without waking her, and she had not only missed Snyder, but was about to be late for school.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Only once Buffy was hurrying up the steps that led to the school’s main entrance did she mentally slap herself upside the head, thinking, Todd. She was supposed to call him yesterday and she’d been so out of it when she got home that she hadn’t even bothered to check her messages. Worst-case scenario, she was scheduled to see him the next afternoon, but she didn’t want to waste the “I think he likes me” vibes she was already getting from him by flaking this early in the potential relationship. She also wanted to make sure that Angel hadn’t killed him, or worse, turned him, but she wouldn’t h
ave a chance to do that until after school. The good news was, if he wasn’t dead yet, there was little chance he would be before sundown.
Buoyed by these hopes, she rushed through the main doors just as the second and final morning bell was shrilling through the halls.
The deserted halls.
The only sign she got that she hadn’t shown up at school on a Saturday by mistake was running into Jonathan, who still stood at his locker despite the fact that classes had just begun. Unlike Buffy, however, Jonathan didn’t seem to be troubled by his tardiness. He wasn’t rushing.
No, he’s not moving, Buffy realized.
Opening his locker a little wider, she saw his closed eyes and slack-jawed mouth and realized he was, like Joyce the previous morning, asleep on his feet.
She gently nudged him and received no response.
“Jonathan?” she said, and again louder, “Jonathan?”
Nothing.
She was contemplating a good solid slap to wake him when a bone-chilling scream echoed through the otherwise empty hall. She quickly turned to see Cordelia running toward the girls’ restroom a few yards down shrieking and scratching at her arms and neck.
Buffy hurried into the bathroom after her and found her at the sink, splashing water all over her arms and shouting, “Get them off me! Get them off!”
“Cordelia,” Buffy said, grabbing her and checking her arms for good measure. Buffy wasn’t a doctor but they looked like normal, healthy bare arms, apart from the welts starting to rise where Cordelia had already scratched herself deeply enough to leave marks.
“Get them off!” Cordelia screamed louder.
“Get what off?” Buffy said, matching her tone and holding Cordelia’s arms down to keep her from further harming herself.